


if music be the food of love (play on)

by callingthequits



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, francis knows how to play the piano, francis loves arthur: the fic, i just wanna clarify that this is very much not a human au, there is honestly not much else to say, this is literally just arthur and francis being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callingthequits/pseuds/callingthequits
Summary: But he wasn't France right now, not in the soft morning light of Calais. Far from the bustling city life of Paris and his obligations as a nation, he was only a young man in love.A day in the life of Francis Bonnefoy, featuring his piano and his soppy affection for Arthur Kirkland.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	if music be the food of love (play on)

Arthur was used to living alone, so Francis often found his lover singing to himself.

 _To lead a better life I need my love to be here,_ he heard from the garden. Arthur had always sung his most tender when he was taking care of the roses, he knew; he'd wax poetic over any flower, of course, but he could go on for hours and hours about the one he loved most.

He could see Arthur through the windows, meticulously inspecting each and every bloom for the slightest hints of tear. He was wearing one of those ridiculously huge gardening hats that, at this angle, was covering most of his face. Together with horrible posture and his frumpy sweater, he cut quite the awkward figure. Yet still, Francis could picture his piercing green eyes, the slight flush of his face, that odd little upturn of his too-long mouth during those rare times that he felt relaxed and at peace.

They've had more than a millennia to get acquainted with each other, more than long enough for them to recognize the things that stayed constant: bright eyes, sorrow, and the empty promises of immortality; England and France fighting with each other, and Arthur and Francis simply having to live through it. There was a loneliness there that he couldn't put into words, not on his own.

 _Each one believing that love never dies_ , Arthur sang. Each note hung in the air a little too long.

Expecting him to come in soon, Francis quickly boiled a kettle for the Englishman's morning tea before leaving the kitchen. He could spend the whole morning looking through the windows, but the ambience demanded he partake a more active role than just sitting around. He was the country of love, after all. And today, he was so full of that confusing, exhilarating emotion that he simply had to do something about it.

He scarcely used it these days, but he certainly hadn't lost any of his skill with the piano. Playing some scales for warm-up, he let himself get re-acquainted with an old friend. It was not too long ago that his musicians were praised worldwide, not too long ago that those same legendary maestros had been invited into his own home and asked to play. Those memories shine golden to him, lazy afternoons of nothing but song and delight and knowing with all the instinct of a nation that these men were going to be remembered one day. He carried them, and their music, with him always.

Francis was lost in the melodious trills of one of their century-old songs when Arthur entered, with his tea and a small plate of the biscuits they had made the night before. He settled into a nice sofa chair beside him with a contented sigh.

"No need to stop on my account," said Arthur, when the piece ended and Francis didn't immediately transition to another one. "Are you taking requests? You know I don't know shit about the classics."

"Yes, you're very artful like that," Francis teased. "Truth be told, you're distracting me."

Arthur huffed, and it was the exact reaction Francis wanted to see from him. He looked adorable with cheeks puffed like that. "Well, if you're going to be like that, I could stop paying for my half of this house and leave. Maybe invest in something actually worthwhile."

"Invest in some sense then, would you? You're being ridiculous and dramatic."

"This, coming from you?"

"I have a certain style of doing such that makes me charming and irresistible, but when you do it, you are like a pitiful donkey."

He thought he really had a good one there, but Arthur only looked faintly amused. "You're losing your touch, if that's all you could think of."

Francis smiled back. "If I lack any bite today, it's not any fault of mine. You are a distraction, like I said."

The other man rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course it's _my_ fault, is it?"

And it was.

He loved seeing Arthur anywhere, but he especially loved seeing Arthur here, in this house that they had quietly bought together without the interference of their respective governments. He loved seeing Arthur now, in this time of peace and normalcy that they had never been given in their youth. He loved seeing Arthur like this, warm and content and alive and close enough to hold without fear, without anger, without hate. It was always a game of play-pretend when they stayed here, and Francis was enamored with domestic bliss every single time. The intimacy, the privacy, the romance — how could he possibly pay attention to anything else _but_ Arthur in this moment? They were not nations here, in their sleepy, cozy abode in Calais. They were only Arthur and Francis, and they were in love.

"You will be less of a distraction if you sit with me," Francis said, instead of _I am so much happier now that you are here_.

He patted the space beside him, watching Arthur set his cup and biscuits down as he took his seat. Francis turned back to the piano to take position, while Arthur shifted closer so he could lean his head on his shoulder. It made movement a bit more difficult, and he knew that Arthur knew this. The both of them also knew that Francis wouldn't tell Arthur to move away for the world.

"You're always making things so hard for me, aren't you?" he said, affectionately.

" _The course of true love never did run smooth_ , as they say," quipped Arthur. "And you knew I was a handful when you met me. It's not my fault you have bad judgment."

"You must think so lowly of the both of us to say that. My judgment, along with everything else about me, is impeccable." Francis started playing a light ditty, just to give his hands something to do. "And _you_ are the light of my life, fire of my loins—"

"Your sin, your soul?" Arthur finished, dryly. He looked up at him in vague annoyance. "Francis, please. You can do better than that."

" _Aussi longtemps que tu voudras, nous dormirons ensemble,_ " he recited, then he laughed when Arthur lightly slapped his arm. "No, you cannot be angry at me for it! It's a line from one of my respected poets, it's not my fault that he phrased it like that— _lapin_ , it was an easy shot to take. I do not know what you expected of me."

"Certainly not bad, perverted poetry," grumbled Arthur. He stared at the ivory keys, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "You know, if you wanted me to play with you, I should've brought my guitar. I can never remember where my fingers are supposed to be on this thing."

"You and your guitars!" The piano made a dissonant noise as Francis slammed his hands on it in surprise, barely holding back his helplessly, _helplessly_ besotted grin. "No, my love. You would've had to go upstairs, discover it has been misplaced, and then spend hours searching for it. You would've surely placed a curse on the entire house for hiding your beloved instrument before you remembered that it was still back in London. By that point, I would've retired to our bedroom, long past the mood for musicmaking."

Arthur's ears were flushed red.

Recognizing his lover's embarrassment, Francis reached out, held his face by the cheek, and gently guided Arthur into looking at him. "But I am still here, yes? Stay with me, Arthur. Sing with me."

He would never tell him this, of course, but he had grown strangely fond of the Englishman's nasal, sardonic voice over the years. Harsh as though it sounded when it was used for his constant, indignant screaming, in the quieter moments it was rhythmic, melodic — as though he never grew out of Shakespeare's characteristic rhyming scheme. It was one out of the many proofs Francis had collected to support his theory of Arthur being a closet romantic at heart, and it was by far his favorite.

Who could dare think of his little England, savage little bunny that he was, the feisty, imperious island nation who grew up shooting arrows and sailing the seas and conquering the world's hegemony in the palm of his hand, doing something as humanly mundane as song? Certainly not France, who had spent centuries at war with his neighbor and still sniped at him countlessly at every single meeting they attended together.

But he wasn't France right now, not in the soft morning light of Calais. Far from the bustling city life of Paris and his obligations as a nation, he was only a young man in love.

Arthur's eyes were so wide, and so green. It felt like eternity before he covered Francis' hand with his own.

Then, softly: "Play me a nice song then, would you, dear?"

Francis only smiled, and set his hands to the keys.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Oh my god, guess who's back in the Hetalia fandom!
> 
> Anyway, I started writing this back in October, on top of the two other Hetalia fics I started writing in October. Funnily enough, I finished this first even though I started it last. I guess that's just because it was extremely self-indulgent of me, just reveling in the familiar feeling of an old and favorite OTP. It was definitely self-indulgent of me to write 60% of this fic this afternoon, just after an hour of feeling sentimental while scrolling through the FrUK tag on Tumblr. And now, for the customary reference notes:
> 
> Title comes from Shakespeare's _Twelfth Night_. 
> 
> The song Arthur keeps singing at the start is The Beatles' _Here, There, and Everywhere_ , which is a sweet and short tune about wanting to be around your lover all the time because it makes you so happy. Paul McCartney wrote it while he was waiting for John Lennon to wake up, which is very sweet in a way. I was going to make Francis play it at the end, but I couldn't figure out how to write it in, so now it's up to you! I really love [Sangah Noona's piano cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUpCIcgzmI8) of the song, so if you have the time, I really recommend you give it a listen. It's so classy.
> 
> The piano song that Francis is playing when Arthur walks in is _[Jeux d'eau](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hqc5B9pQYBs)_ , a 1901 piece by French composer Maurice Ravel. It often gets translated into English as _Playing Water_ , and it's inspired by the sound of (you guessed it) water! I feel like the piece reminds Francis of Arthur a lot.
> 
>  _The course of true love never did run smooth_ is another Shakespeare quote, this time from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. I originally wanted Arthur to say something like: "Well, that's why the Bard titled it Love's Labour's Lost," after another Shakespeare play, meaning that love is something difficult so Francis will just have to put up with him, but I couldn't find a way to make it flow smoothly. So I went with the quote instead, because it's simpler and its intention is the same, and I like it better! I like that Arthur implies that Francis is his true love. Aww.
> 
>  _Light of my life, fire of my loins; my sin, my soul_ is from the opening lines of _Lolita_. Yeah, you can see why Arthur was a bit disturbed. Fun fact: _Lolita_ was first published in Paris! 
> 
> _Aussi longtemps que tu voudras, nous dormirons ensemble_ is the last line of French poet Louis Aragon's _Nous dormirons ensemble_. It translates to _As long as you want, we will sleep together_. It's a short (and yes, slightly perverted) poem, but it's actually pretty sweet.


End file.
